The weather station perched at 3,000m altitude above the Plaine Morte glacier looks like a spaceship from the 1960s designed by Andy Warhol and a consortium of little green men.
It’s a whimsical sight, but as you pan your eyes around, the world drops away beneath your feet to an impossibly vast tongue of ice that creeps imperceptibly down between towering spines of rock.
Up here, there’s no sign of life, and as I drag thin air into my chest, I realise I may as well be on the moon.
Twenty minutes ago, I was stepping out of the large ‘telecabin’ that had lifted me and my bike up from the high-end Swiss resort of Crans-Montana.
I gamely set off pedalling up the steep incline to the top, but a wave of dizziness forced me to get off and push – the risk of altitude sickness is all too real up here, and can be exacerbated by dehydration.
Having now reached the summit, I take another long swig of isotonic drink.
I’m here to experience a ride that can only be undertaken with a qualified guide – in this case, Julian Paganelli, founder of bikevs.ch.
The terrain is pretty serious stuff, with boulder fields, rock chutes, cannonball runs of loose scree alongside 1,000m drops and switchbacks sharp enough to give you whiplash.
It’s rough enough to require 100 per cent commitment or risk being eaten alive – and remote enough for any injury beyond the ‘ride it off’ category to require a helicopter medivac.
Reassuringly, it’s prime flying weather today, with bluebird skies and wall-to-wall sunshine that washes every rock with a shining brilliance.
We’re lucky – just yesterday, out of nowhere, the sky turned bruised purple and started hurling lightning bolts at the rocky tops.
Our goal is simple – to roll down that ribbon of stone between those two cairns over there and not stop for 35km and 2,500m of vertical descent, to experience what may well be the best downhill ever.
Mission to Mars
Despite this being only my second day at altitude, my confidence has been buoyed by the previous day’s acclimatisation, followed by a quick warm-up lap through the Crans-Montana Bikepark on our way here, where we copped a spectacular view of an icy blue lake slotted between 3,000m+ granite giants.
We’ll be riding all the way down to those today. As we drop in between the cairns, the dusty line of singletrack disappears into a series of blocky, pedal-crunching steps, through which we must pick our line as the glacier glitters below.
My brain is working overtime to avoid wheel-twisting traps set to snare the unwary, reminiscent of the gnarliest natural trails in the Lake District but turned up to 11.
It’s tense riding, and steep enough to make me glad of the mullet wheels of my Canyon Torque, but we make it down an open, scree-filled valley ahead of another ridgeline, and the tension is released by letting off the brakes for a descent on a compacted trail.
The steep drop means we need to hike-a-bike to pick up the next part of the downhill.
My lungs and legs are burning by the time we crest the ridge. We’ve lost some altitude and are now in a landscape comprised of blocks of red stone.
It feels as if we’ve travelled from the grey-and-white monochrome of the moon to the dusty-red filter of Mars.
These trails, marked out with cairns and stripes of red and white paint, are shared use, and we soon come across a group of hikers labouring up the extreme incline of a rocky red chute.
They’re astounded we’re going to ride down what they’re climbing up. Nothing about this trail is designed for bikes – it’s a steep scramble of uneven blocks of stone and tight switchbacks, and I’m envious of Julian’s ability to nose-pivot his bike through the sharpest of corners – a clutch skill in the Swiss Alps.
We make it down to the Wildstrubel mountain hut, perched precariously above another steep cliff, where some walkers have stopped for lunch.
With this kind of terrain on tap, it’s no wonder Crans-Montana has played host to the Enduro World Cup.
Here, we negotiate another rocky section of trail before encountering a steep wall of snow that fills the gap between two pillars of rock.
The cold air rises to greet us as we pick our way across the surprisingly icy, pebble-strewn snow.
I look down and realise there’s nothing to stop a simple slip from sending me hurtling hundreds of metres down this icy ramp into an uncompromising boulder field.
As we work our way down, the view below opens up into a magnificent panorama of a rocky plain that stretches away under the towering peaks of the Wildhorn and sparkles with the fingers of a meltwater river.
My eyes are drawn to a savage cleft in the rock in front of us, where the trail is swallowed between sheer walls, its surface seeded with intimidating boulders.
I can’t see a way through, but our intrepid guide leads us on, sending it with speed down the jumble of knee-mashing stone.
I follow gingerly in stop-start, foot-dabbing style, realising that speed is your friend when freeriding – but only if you have the chops.
As we loop around the next corner, I glance back and see an enormous granite slab lying smack in the middle of the valley, like a giant’s table with a couple of collapsed legs.
The uncharacteristic outbreak of courage that follows must have been a side-effect of a body flooded with adrenaline and a brain singing with endorphins.
“Wow, look at that slab! I’d be down for riding that,” I exclaim.
The lingering silence that follows is broken by Chris the photographer saying, “It would make an awesome shot.” This should have triggered an alarm in my head.
Instead, I just stare up at the outrageously blank white slab with a daft grin on my face, then follow Julian, bikes on our shoulders.
Body betrays mind
The ‘doable’ angle of the slope kicks up savagely as we hike up, forcing me onto tiptoes and throwing my weight forwards.
By the time a foot slips out on an adventurous clump of grass, I’m legitimately shitting myself.
I’ve ridden large rock slabs before (hello, Utah!), but upon reaching its summit, this Alpine mega-slab literally takes my breath away.
“So, er, Julian, how much can I brake on this?” I ask tentatively. “Try not to brake on the way down,” he replies. “It’ll be too scary to go slowly.”
Sound advice… Staring down a slope as steep as a rock climb, I become fixated on a gaping, front-wheel-eating void in the slab, which sits right across my line.
A few deep breaths later, I’m in position to drop into my planned line, just outside Julian’s. I don’t mind admitting that I freeze.
“Just let me know when you’re ready,” coaxes Julian.
“Er, I don’t know when that’ll be,” comes my lame reply. Sensing my dilemma, Julian leans into his years of coaching.
“OK, Matt. We go in three. 3, 2, 1, GO!” My body reacts instantly, betraying my vacillating brain, and my bike shoots down the slab like an overstimulated labrador.
I’m immersed in the moment, wielding a laser focus that burns away my fear, and I fly down the slab, the speed ferociously locking my tyres into the rock’s teeth.
Nailing the front-wheel pull-up over the ‘Chasm of Doom’ without a second thought, I let out a disbelieving whoop of joy as my bike is launched out of the sharp transition at the bottom of the slab, cheered on by Julian, who’s now laughing like a pirate.
These are the kind of moments that are forever etched into your brain, and it’s testament to the infinite potential of the riding here that this one came about from a chance look over my shoulder.
Back to Earth
With my spirits sky-high and the altitude easing, we roll out onto the open, rocky plain. For the first time, I really feel the flow, picking up speed and using natural berms and mini-drops into rocky fissures to maintain pace.
It’s incredible riding, although you need to keep your wits about you because the terrain is still composed of massive stone blocks cut with streams, resulting in wheel-eating holes.
The combination of low green grasses, lichen and burbling water makes me feel I’ve finally returned to Earth, albeit a fantastical and elemental one, ruled by the might of stone and the whims of the weather, where human concerns don’t register.
The next section is a fast, loose and satisfying plunge on rocky singletrack through Alpine meadows, then doubletrack that takes us to the shores of the impossibly blue Lac de Tseuzier, actually a reservoir.
I gratefully fill a bottle – the water is glacier crisp and tastes amazing. Refreshed, we soon drop in to some excellent locals-built trails – steep, rooty chutes that whip back and forth between the trees, and rock gardens running with stream water, a far cry from the rocky delights of earlier.
We’re splattered with mud and dust, and grinning from ear to ear, as we’re spat out from the ranks of vines on the vertiginous slopes above the valley floor.
Although we’re far below the Crans-Montana resort, there’s just time for another freeride blast – this one with a twist – as we charge down a steep flight of wooden steps in the golden afternoon sun.
Then we catch the funicular all the way back up to Crans-Montana, in time to share a bottle of Petite Arvine wine from those very vines, accompanied by a cheese-dense recovery meal – the perfect way to round off a day of satisfyingly, and scarily, demanding descents.
Daring descenders
Matt Ray rode with pro mountain guide Julian Paganelli of Bikevs.ch – this downhill is only available through Julian, who has pioneered freeriding in Crans-Montana. Chris Lanaway was our man behind the camera.
The lowdown
- Getting there: Fly to Geneva from London with SWISS and transfer to Crans-Montana via Sierre by train – there’s a direct funicular from there to the resort at 1,500m.
- Accommodation: Stay at Hotel Olympic, a bike-friendly hotel in central Crans-Montana with secure storage, bike washing facilities and a tool station with workstand.
